


The Sound of My X-Rated Dreams

by DesireeArmfeldt



Category: due South
Genre: Backrubs, First Time, M/M, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7309303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray gets into the habit of giving Fraser backrubs.  It's just a friendly gesture. . .but it's hard to wrestle with temptation when Fraser keeps making noises that belong in a porn soundtrack.</p><p>(Desiree Does The Tropes, continued.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sound of My X-Rated Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I have finished a WIP! (Only infinity-minus-one left on my computer!)
> 
> Just as I was finishing this up, deputychairman and inconclusionray pointed out that fanon has propagated the misconception that Fraser’s bullet wound is at the base of his spine, when it is actually (according to Vecchio in Letting Go) in the T8 region, which is in the middle of the back. I am guilty of this error in at least a couple of my posted fics...but at least I could correct it here. :)

Along with the broken heart, Ray’s marriage had left him with a bunch of useful skills, including the ability to give a damn fine massage, if he did say so himself. Plus, between the gym and the job, he had a lot of first-hand reasons to appreciate the value of a timely backrub. So, when Fraser’s back started acting up on him, Ray offered to lend a hand (no pun intended). Seemed like the friendly thing to do. And yes, okay, it did also give him an innocent excuse to touch Fraser more than he normally would, with Fraser not able to see his face, but that was just an added bonus. He honestly was only trying to help.

Until Fraser melted like butter under his hands and started making noises that belonged in an X-rated movie.

Fortunately, that not-being-able-to-see-Ray’s-face thing meant Fraser couldn’t see any other incriminating parts of Ray’s body either. Not to mention, Ray got the feeling Fraser might not have noticed if a bomb went off under his chair, as long as Ray kept kneading between his shoulderblades. Which, hey, was quite a compliment: not everyone could reduce a Mountie to mush with their bare hands, right?

So Ray bit his lips, concentrated on his hands, and told himself this was just like when the neighbors really got going on the other side of the bedroom wall. _Somebody’s having a good time, and it’s not your fault you’re getting a little second-hand fun out of it, but those happy, porny noises are nothing to do with you. And, by the way, if your partner notices your raging hard-on, you’ll both spontaneously combust from embarrassment, so you’d better not let him catch you. Poor guy’s going to be embarrassed enough already when he gets his marbles back together and realizes what he sounded like._

Only, weirdly, Fraser didn’t seem to be at all bothered by the way he’d let himself go. When Ray finally stopped rubbing his back—only because his fingers were starting to cramp up—Fraser stayed slumped over for so long that Ray wondered if he’d fallen asleep. Then he suddenly raised his head, popped up out of the chair, and flashed Ray a megawatt smile. 

“Thank you kindly, Ray,” he said. “I feel much better.”

He looked a million times better, too: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, 110% super-Mountie, all set to sweep Ray off on another implausible do-gooding adventure.

Thinking it over later, Ray figured that either Fraser had been so into the backrub that he hadn’t even noticed he was making noise, or else he thought that was just a normal, natural response and nothing to be ashamed of. He must not have noticed Ray’s dick doing battle with his fly, either, not even after the fact. Ray had never been so grateful for the man’s habit of looking everyone straight in the face when he talked to them. So, as Fraser was concerned, it was apparently just that simple: he’d needed a backrub, Ray had given him one, it made him feel better, greatness.

After that, it became a regular thing for Ray to give Fraser a backrub when he was sore. Probably not Ray’s smartest decision ever, letting that happen, but it wasn’t ever a _decision_ , exactly; it just sort of happened. Anyway, Fraser said it helped his back, and Ray was not made of fucking stone. He figured, as long as he kept his boners to himself and his hands in PG-13 territory, no harm, no foul.

Of course, you couldn’t just sit down in the bullpen and give your partner a backrub. And once he knew about Fraser’s backrub-getting noises, no fucking _way_ was Ray going to do that to him anywhere there was a chance someone else might hear. Which ruled out the Consulate, because even in Fraser’s office/bedroom, there was always the chance his boss would walk in, or Turnbull, plus Ray wasn’t sure how far sound carried in that big, echoey building.

Basically, the only practical place for backrubs was Ray’s apartment. Which was convenient. . .except for how it was maybe a little _too_ convenient. It gave Ray _ideas_. It tempted him to see how much he could get away with.

And, see, fighting temptation had never been one of Ray’s strengths. He’d been the kid who ate all his candy in the first week after Halloween; the teenager who got detention for mouthing off to the teacher, and got the stuffing pounded out of him when he was outweighed and outnumbered because he couldn’t keep his smart-ass thoughts to himself. As a grown-up, most of his will-power went towards not doing dumb stuff on the job that would get him either killed or fired, so he didn’t have a lot left over for keeping himself on a short leash with the guy he had a raging crush on.

So Ray would get Fraser sitting wrong-way-round on a dining chair, with his tunic off and his suspenders hanging down by his waist, limp and groaning as Ray worked the knots out of his shoulders. And then Ray would push his luck.

Like, for example, he’d try to make Fraser talk.

“This good?”

“Yes,” Fraser sighed, his voice deeper than usual.

“Harder? Softer?” Ray pressed his thumb into a knot under Fraser’s shoulderblade.

“Mmm. . .harder. . .please. . .”

Ray swallowed, shifted his stance to make a little more room in his pants for his hardening cock, and increased the pressure. The groan Fraser gave in response made Ray’s breath catch.

“Uh—” He cleared his throat. “Where’s it worst? Here, or. . . ?”

“If you could—ooh, yes. . .perhaps a little lower, right above the—yes, mmm, right there, oh, oohhh yes. . .”

 _Oohh Jesus,_ Ray thought, feeling the heat rise all over his skin, but he’d asked for it, hadn’t he? Asked for it and got it, so now he’d just have to damn well suffer through it. Fraser’s low, slow, fuck-me-now voice, the heat of his body radiating through his soft cotton shirt, his head lolling forward. Ray’s collar going damp with sweat as he clenched his teeth and breathed through his nose as quietly as he could manage, his trapped cock twitching every time Fraser groaned. Wondering how long he could last before he either spontaneously combusted or started humping Fraser’s back. Needing to get the hell out of there; wanting it to go on for ever.

That was how it always ended up: self-inflicted erotic torture. And each time, after Fraser had thanked him sincerely and unselfconsciously, turned down a ride home in favor of a “constitutional” hike across town, and made himself scarce, Ray would take his aching hard-on to bed and jack off to the memory of Fraser’s moans. Picturing Fraser beside him, head thrown back on the pillow, eyes screwed shut—Fraser’s hand teasing Ray’s dick—Fraser squirming and panting as Ray touched him, kissed him, licked him, and every time Ray’s lips or fingers investigated a new spot, Fraser would give another one of those deep, grateful moans that got under Ray’s skin. . .

Ray would come hard into his own hand, sometimes making enough noise himself to drown out Fraser’s imaginary voice. And then he’d drift off to sleep, sticky and feeling a little sick, like he’d scarfed down a box of donuts, because this was not buddies, and it was not healthy, either. It was pathetic and _dangerous_ , and he needed to stop doing this to himself.

And the next time Fraser’s back hurt, they’d end up right back at Ray’s apartment, and Ray would find some new way to push the envelope.

“Hey, you know what? This’d be easier if you were lying down. Better angle. Probably more comfortable for you, too.”

Fraser eyed the couch dubiously. “I don’t think there’s room.”

“Nah, but we could use my bed,” Ray offered, proud of how casual he sounded, and Fraser didn’t bat an eye, just stood up and waited for him to lead the way. So Ray bit back his surprise and did just that, thinking, _Jesus, does he really just not care at all?_  He couldn’t make up his mind whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Fraser lowered himself carefully onto the bed, facedown, head pillowed on his arms, like there was nothing the least bit weird going on here. Which, of course, there wasn’t, so why _should_ he care? They were buddies, Ray gave him backrubs all the time; this was just business as usual.

Business as usual for Fraser. Ray was the one going out of his goddamned mind.

And it wasn’t like he _wanted_ to make Fraser uncomfortable; he certainly didn’t want Fraser to stop asking for backrubs. But for Christ’s sake, the guy spoke five languages and could practically read witnesses’ minds, and he’d been in Chicago for _years_. How the hell did he not _get_ that sprawling out on another guy’s bed was. . .that you couldn’t just. . .not unless you meant. . . ?

“Take your shirt off, why don’t you?”

That actually did make Fraser hesitate. He glanced up at Ray over his shoulder with a little crinkle between his eyebrows, giving Ray’s heart a jolt like he’d been zapped with a taser. But before Ray could say, _Never mind, forget it,_ Fraser went ahead and unbuttoned his flannel shirt, folded it neatly on the far side of the bed, and even took off his undershirt, too. Without another word, he stretched out again, leaving Ray staring down at his bare back and realizing just how stupid an idea this was.

Because now he had to sit beside Fraser’s half-naked body, _on his own bed_ , and touch all that soft, warm skin, and feel Fraser loose and lazy under his hands, and listen to Fraser moaning like he was having five-star sex—Christ, he was doing it already. Ray had barely started squeezing his shoulders, and Fraser was already. . .and Ray was painfully hard in his jeans, biting his lips because there were so many other things he wanted to do with his mouth right now, all of them way, way off-limits.

Because Fraser didn’t mean anything by it. Fraser didn’t even know he was making porn noises. Fraser was just lying there trusting his pal Ray to give him some relief for his sore back.

Licking the sweat off his upper lip, he shifted his butt down past Fraser’s hips to get a better angle to work at. It was kind of awkward to balance like this, sitting to one side of Fraser and reaching across to his farther shoulder. It would have been simpler to straddle him— _oh God, no, do not even think about that_. . .but of course, it was too late, he’d thought about it. Fraser’s ass under his; Fraser moaning and squirming and rubbing up against him—

He pinched his own thigh, hard, as he dragged his eyes away from Fraser’s ass to focus on something, anything else. . .like that scar in the middle of Fraser’s back, nestled up next to his spine. Nothing sexy about that. That was not the sexy kind of scar; it was the ugly kind, the kind you didn’t want to look at, the kind that screamed, _something horrible happened right here._ It wasn’t real big, but that unnatural indentation and the ridge spidering up from it, that was a bullet wound, and not just a graze, but the real fucking deal.

“Holy crap,” Ray blurted without thinking.

“What?” Fraser’s voice, muffled by the pillow, sounded a little alarmed.

“Sorry, sorry, nothing. Just, that scar. It’s um, it’s real close to your spine.”

Under Ray’s hands, Fraser’s back clenched up hard as granite.

There was a little pause, and then Fraser said, still into the pillow, “Yes.” And then, “I was lucky.”

“Jesus, you can say that again,” Ray whispered. “What happened?”

“You shot me.”

“I _what?_ What the hell are you—?”

“You shot me,” Fraser repeated flatly, like he was reciting name, rank and serial number. “May 15, 1995. I imagine it’s in your case files.”

“Jesus Christ,” Ray muttered.

Yeah, right, ‘ _he’_ had shot Fraser, meaning the real Ray Vecchio had done it, and yes, Ray did know about that colossal clusterfuck, although Welsh had only given him the broad-brush version of the story. And he was glad Fraser took security seriously when it came to maintaining Ray’s cover and Vecchio’s, but for Pete’s sake, did he have to be so fucking literal about it when they were by themselves with no one to overhear?

Still, this was not the time to chew Fraser out about his irritating quirks, not when Ray had just metaphorically shoved his hands into the guy’s bleeding guts.

So he just said, “Right, yeah.” And, “I’m sorry,” because he _was_ sorry it had happened, and sorry he’d made Fraser think about it for no good reason.

After a silence that seemed to last a long time, Fraser said, softly but extra-precisely, “It was the best thing. . .you. . .ever did for me.”

Well, fuck. Ray didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with that. He couldn’t even tell if Fraser was just talking about Vecchio or if he was including Ray in that _you_. Or what it would mean if he were.

“That why your back gives you trouble?” he asked, finally, because it seemed like a fairly safe question.

“I don’t think so. Possibly. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, I guess not,” Ray said. “So, but, um, is it a problem? I mean, should I keep away from it, when I’m. . ?”

“You probably shouldn’t apply direct pressure, but anything other than the immediate area should be fine.”

“So, like. . .” Ray tentatively touched a finger to Fraser’s spine, next to the scar. “Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, cool. How about. . .” He lined up his fingertips about an inch above the scar, with the other hand in the mirror-image position on the other side of Fraser’s spine, and pressed gently down on the muscle.

“Mm. Yes, that’s fine.” Fraser’s distant tone softened some, to Ray’s relief. “In fact, if you wouldn’t mind. . .there’s a knot right—ooohh, yes, right there, mmmnh. . .”

That little moan sent a hot shiver up Ray’s spine and made his dick jump to attention, which just went to show that even while his brain had been distracted by creepy depressing thoughts about Fraser getting hurt, his body had a goddamned one track mind.

By way of apology—for the horniness, the nosiness, everything—Ray tried to make the backrub extra-good. Fraser’s muscles were tenser than usual as Ray got to work, not just the lower back and between the shoulders, but everywhere he touched, which, go figure: talking about getting shot by his best friend got Fraser tense. But as Ray worked his way gently up along Fraser’s spine and across his shoulders, Fraser responded as enthusiastically—and loudly—as ever. Ray kept kneading until Fraser’s groans trailed off into sighs, and then into soft, easy breaths, until he couldn’t feel any tense spots anywhere on Fraser’s back. His own shoulders were aching by that point, not to mention his hands, but it was worth it to see Fraser so completely relaxed.

In fact, as he watched the slow, even rise and fall of Fraser’s back, and heard the soft huff of each exhale, he realized that Fraser had passed all the way through relaxed and on into asleep.

“Hey Fraser? Frase?”

Fraser mumbled something that sounded like _radish spoons_.

“What?” Ray asked, but Fraser didn’t respond. Ray squeezed his shoulder: still nothing. Looked like he was out for the count. Ray thought about waking him up, then figured, screw it. Fraser could use the sleep, and it’d be a nice treat for him to sleep in a real fucking bed instead of a rickety cot for once. Ray could crash on the couch, no problem.

Fraser was already sock-footed and shirtless; sleeping in his pants wouldn’t kill him, and Ray sure as hell wasn’t going to try and wrestle them off him. But he figured Fraser might get chilly, sleeping on top of the covers like that. So he tugged the far end of the blanket and sheet loose so he could fold them over and make kind of a Fraser-burrito. . .but he couldn’t quite bring himself to cover him up yet.

Fraser just looked so different like this, completely limp, with his bare back turned trustingly to the world. Softer. Out of his shell. He looked like he’d never even _had_ a shell.

Ray stared down at Fraser’s broad, muscular back, the dip of his spine at the waist, the swell of his jeans-covered ass. The ugly, puckered scar emphasizing how smooth his skin was otherwise. The thick, dark hair, trimmed to a neat point at the base of his skull.

He had his head turned a little to one side so he could breathe; Ray could see his ear and part of his cheek and jaw. He still looked almost clean-shaven, even at the end of the day, even though he was such a dark-haired guy.

Ray ran one fingertip along Fraser’s jaw. He could just barely feel the prickle of stubble coming up. Funny how Fraser’s beard grew so slow compared to Ray’s.

Fraser didn’t stir as Ray brushed the pad of his thumb over that short fuzz at the nape of Fraser’s neck, up against the grain and then smoothing it down again. He ghosted his fingers over Fraser’s shoulders, tracing the places he’d massaged earlier, the skin soft and warm and—

_Wait. Shit._

He snatched his hand back like he’d touched a hot stove. What the hell was he doing? This was way over the line, and the fact that Fraser was asleep just made it worse: next-door to molestation, for Christ’s sake!

He pulled the covers over Fraser and got out of there as quietly as he could, then stood in the middle of his living room fighting the urge to stomp around and slam doors and throw things. Go out, get in his car, drive too fast; find a bar, find some trouble, find someone to punch him in the fucking head.

He settled for taking a shower, where he jerked off fast and rough, mentally working his way through all the Clash lyrics he could remember to keep from thinking about anything else while he panted into the spray. The orgasm hit him like a gut-punch just as the hot water ran out. Woozy, cursing under his breath ( _Quiet,_ quiet, _don’t wake the goddamned Mountie)_ , he toweled off, threw his clothes back on, and staggered out to collapse on the couch.

He woke up the next morning with a thud as he rolled off the damn thing and hit the floor. Once he’d fought his way free of the blanket that was trying to devour him, he tiptoed to the bathroom, in case Fraser was still asleep. But the bedroom door was open, the bathroom door, too, and Fraser was nowhere in sight. His boots and hat were gone when Ray checked.

He hadn’t left a note or anything, which seemed weirdly rude for Fraser: just sneaking out without a word. But maybe it was just his way of being polite. After all, even though Fraser made a big deal about courtesy, his ideas about what counted as courteous were sometimes pretty far out there. Or, heck, maybe he’d felt embarrassed about putting Ray out of his bed and snuck out to avoid any awkwardness in the morning.

Only, no note. And—what the fuck?—he’d stripped the sheets off Ray’s bed, which could totally be a politeness thing, too, except he hadn’t put them in the hamper or anywhere else Ray looked. Apparently, he’d taken the sheets _with_ him.

Ray couldn’t think of any reason for Fraser to steal his sheets. . .Unless maybe he jumped out the window in the middle of the night to stop a purse-snatching and he needed the sheets to. . .something, Ray couldn’t imagine what, but it’d be just like Fraser. Just like him, too, not to wake Ray up before tearing off on some stupid. . .Or what if he’d been kidnapped? Maybe somebody broke in and snatched Fraser and they used the sheets to tie him up and—

 _Don’t panic. Deep breath. Cool down. Think about this logically._ He stifled a semi-hysterical chuckle at the thought that Fraser always billed himself as Mr. Logic when he was the one who got himself into ridiculous situations that only made sense if you were on LSD.

But when he forced himself to look around the bedroom like was examining a crime scene, it was obvious that there were no signs of a struggle. Even if he assumed the kidnappers had drugged Fraser in his sleep and dragged him off without a fight, the window was latched from the inside, which ruled out both the carried-down-the-fire-escape and jumped-under-his-own-power scenarios. And surely Ray would have woken up if someone had carried a Mountie through the living room—although obviously he _hadn’t_ woken up, and Fraser _had_ left through the front door, under his own power or not—

 _Deep breath. You’re being an idiot. Fraser’s fine. He woke up early and didn’t want to make a fuss, and his grandmother taught him to wash the sheets and towels when he’s a guest in someone’s home. He’s home feeding the damn dog, and you’ll see him at the station in—_ (he checked his watch) _—two hours, and it’ll all be fine._

His hand hovered over the phone as he thought about dialing the Consulate, but what the hell was he going to say if Fraser picked up, which he totally would, because he was _there,_ he was _fine,_ he’d just walked a million blocks at the ass-crack of dawn instead of waiting for Ray to give him a ride for some incomprehensible Fraser-reason, and didn’t need Ray checking up on him, or else he didn’t want to talk to Ray this morning, and if Ray _called_ him, then they’d both be on the spot, and if Fraser didn’t want to talk to him, then Ray didn’t want to hear it.

It was fine. Everything was fine. And he was going to be late for work if he didn’t get his ass into the shower, pronto.

Fraser showed up at the station with Dief in tow at 9:30 on the dot like he was supposed to, and Ray’s stomach unclenched. But his relief that Fraser hadn’t been snatched by sheet-stealing pirates only went so far, because Fraser was doing that extra-hearty, almost-manic thing where he laughed self-consciously at his own stupid jokes and his vocabulary swung sharply into cornball territory. And he was kind of wired, hyper-alert but also stiff, twitching whenever Ray got within arm’s reach, bustling around taking care of this, that and the other like a squirrel on espresso. 

Something was obviously eating him, and it definitely had to do with Ray, because the off behavior amped up when the two of them were alone—which Fraser seemed to be doing his best to avoid, except for how he had to get into Ray’s car to go out and do their actual job.

They’d been _fine_ last night; Fraser had been happy enough to follow Ray home and lie down for a backrub with his goddamned shirt off. So if Fraser was upset now, it had to be _about_ last night.

Which, okay, fair enough. Ray had fucked up, he knew it, and he owed Fraser an apology. Except. . .it’d really help to know what he needed to apologize for.

Because on the one hand, he’d put his foot in it when he’d asked about Fraser’s scar, and Fraser hadn’t liked it one bit. For all his honesty, and for all the things he was weirdly unselfconscious about, Fraser was a real private guy when it came to talking about his own feelings. Just because Ray told Fraser about _his_ personal crap all the time, didn’t give him the right to expect to know all about Fraser’s.

If that was what had Fraser wound up, then probably all Ray needed to do to smooth it over was to say, _Hey, sorry I got so nosy last night, won’t happen again,_ and then let it drop, and start putting more effort into not just saying every damn thing that popped into his head.

But what if Fraser was upset about. . .the other thing? The touching thing. The totally-inappropriate, not-at-all-buddies touching thing?

What if he hadn’t been as asleep as Ray thought, when Ray was pawing him in the middle of the night? What if he’d been so embarrassed and uncomfortable that he hadn’t known what to do except play dead and wait for Ray to go the fuck away so Fraser could make a break for it?

And of course, Fraser was too polite and kind to confront Ray now and say, _Hey, buddy, that was way out of line, the way you were feeling me up when you thought I was asleep._ So he was trying to spare them both the agony and pretend nothing had happened, and hoping Ray would take the hint and do the same.

Well. . .okay. If that was how Fraser wanted to play it, he was letting Ray off easy, and Ray sure as hell owed it to him to play along. Situation normal. Nothing to see here. No nosy questions. Definitely no inappropriate touching. And no more backrubs, because obviously Ray couldn’t be trusted to do that without crossing lines he had no business crossing. 

Fraser turned down Ray’s offer of a ride home, but that was just as well, because when Ray went back out to the GTO at the end of the day, he found an anonymous brown paper bag sitting on the passenger seat that turned out to contain his missing sheets, washed and ironed and folded and smelling like old-fashioned-clean, like Grandma Kowalski’s sheets used to smell when he was a kid. His face burned, his throat went tight, and yeah, you know, this was probably exactly why Fraser had made like a Christmas elf to return the damn sheets in the first place. He hadn’t wanted to cause a scene, or to have to talk about last night, or deal with Ray and his pathetic lack of self-control.

Ray stuffed the bag of sheets in the back of his closet as soon as he got home. He spent the rest of the evening with this lump of anger or tears or _something_ riding around in his chest, plus blue balls from the hard-on he felt sick to touch.

But in the morning, there was Fraser at the 2-7, twitchy and embarrassed but obviously trying to salvage their friendship and Ray’s dignity by moving on. So Ray did his damndest to pretend like everything was normal, and you know what? Over the course of a couple of awkward days, they both gradually loosened up and stopped having to work so hard at pretending, because things actually _were_ back to normal.

Mostly normal, anyway. A normal where they joked and argued and set the bad guys up and knocked them down, and where Ray was careful about what he said and how he touched Fraser, and didn’t make flimsy excuses to invite him over after work, and definitely didn’t offer to rub his back.

Until they ended up in a chase that involved jumping across fire escapes and Fraser swinging from poles and getting thrown off a roof and fortunately _not_ hitting the ground three stories down, but pretty seriously wrenching his back with all the acrobatics. Afterwards, he was all, _I’m fine, Ray, nothing worth mentioning, just a few bruises,_ but he could barely bend to get himself into the car. And even though Ray drove as carefully as he could, Fraser’s face was scrunched up in pain by the time they got to the station—which, if Fraser was letting it show like that, he had to be hurting pretty damn bad.

“I’m taking you to the hospital, buddy,” Ray told him, after he’d finished booking the perp, but Fraser shook his head—a careful little shake, like he was afraid it might fall off.

“It’s just. . .my back. Muscle spasms. They won’t. . .be able to do. . .anything.

“They’ll give you painkillers and make sure you haven’t ruptured anything,” Ray argued, but he didn’t have the heart to push it, because really, Fraser was almost certainly right.

So he helped Fraser back into the GTO—Fraser didn’t even try to refuse, another sign of how bad he was hurting—and drove him back to Ray’s apartment, where there was a bed big enough for him to stretch out on, and a couple of hot-pads, and Advil and even some leftover codeine, in case Fraser turned out to be desperate enough to take real drugs. He helped Fraser off with his boots and clothes, got him laid down on the bed in his bizarrely crisp, blindingly white boxers, and settled the hot-pads in place.

For about two seconds, he considered offering Fraser a backrub, but then decided that was a stupid idea, even without the personal-boundaries issue. If Ray had been a massage therapist, maybe he could’ve helped, but with the kind of pain Fraser was in, an amateur poking at him would probably just have made things worse. Of course, if Fraser had asked him to, that would’ve been a different story. . .but Fraser wasn’t talking. He was lying face-down, rigid as a board, probably gritting his teeth and definitely not making a sound, except for breathing so harshly that Ray winced every time Fraser exhaled.

On the bright side, at least Ray wasn’t going to be tempted to push any boundaries.

He put a glass of water and the pill bottles on the nightstand, within easy reach of the bed, told Fraser to call if he needed anything, and retreated to the living room to watch TV with the sound down. When he checked in on Fraser an hour later, he seemed to be asleep, and Ray didn’t hear a peep out of him for the rest of the evening.

Ray woke up in the middle of the night, groggy and stiff from sleeping on the couch that really wasn’t long enough for a 5’11” guy to stretch out on, and needing to piss. Shuffling back from the bathroom, he heard a groan from the bedroom, shockingly loud in the post-bar-closing, pre-street-sweepers quiet.

He stuck his head into the bedroom to see if Fraser needed help, or another dose of drugs, but he never got farther than opening his mouth to say. . .He couldn’t remember what he’d been going to say. In fact, he couldn’t remember how to make words right at that moment, because Fraser. . .Fraser was. . .

Fraser was still lying on his face, and he was squirming—no, call a spade a spade, Fraser was _humping_ Ray’s mattress. In his sleep, as far as Ray could tell, though it was hard to be sure, because the only light was what leaked in from the street, plus Fraser’s face was mashed into his pillow. What was not at all in doubt was that, asleep or not, Fraser was really enjoying what he was doing. He was moaning, mostly low in his throat, but sometimes a sharp little cry, or a longer, louder groan like the one Ray had heard earlier. The one that sounded like Fraser was in pain. 

Only it was really, obviously not pain, and now Fraser’s hips were pumping harder, faster against the sheets, and Ray could hear Fraser breathing— _panting—Jesus._ Much more of this and he was going to make a mess of Ray’s sheets—and huh, maybe this explained the kidnapped sheets that other time. Maybe this had happened then, too, and Fraser had been embarrassed because he’d. . .Oh God, Fraser had _had a wet dream in Ray’s bed_ , and now he was doing it again, _right in front of Ray’s eyes_. Shit, _shit_ , Ray should not have been seeing this, you didn’t spy on a guy’s wet dream, and that went double for your best-friend-and-work-partner, and triple for Fraser, who would die of shame if he knew Ray was seeing him like this, this was not okay, Ray needed to get the fuck out of there _right now—_

He whirled and smacked straight into the half-open door with a thump and a yell when the damn thing practically split his skull. Enough noise to wake the dead, never mind Fraser, who sat up, blinking in sleepy confusion.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Ray gabbled, clutching his throbbing forehead. “I was just leaving, I heard you and I thought you were hurting so I came in to check, don’t be mad, it’s okay, it’s cool, I didn’t, I don’t—”

And oh fuck, even in the crappy light, he could see the mortified look on Fraser’s face, his frozen-solid posture. He couldn’t tell if Fraser was blushing, but he’d have laid money on tomato-red. They stared at each other for a long moment, a pair of rabbits in the headlights.

Fraser bolted first—or tried to, but Ray was blocking the doorway.

“Whoa, hey, no,” Ray blurted. “You don’t gotta—”

“I really think it’s best if I—” In an attempt to edge past Ray, Fraser twisted his body sideways—then froze with a grunt of pain.

“Shit, your back, are you okay?” Ray grabbed him by the shoulders to hold him still. “Where does it hurt?”

Fraser just shook his head, grimacing.

“Okay, here, c’mon, sit down.”

Ray steered Fraser back to the bed and eased him down, a little surprised that Fraser actually let him do it.

“There you go, that’s it, easy now. . .”

Fraser sighed as he settled onto the bed, but he was still holding himself rigidly upright, and even in the dim light, Ray could see the furrow of pain between his eyebrows.

“You need. . .anything? More drugs?” Really, the best thing he could offer—the right thing—was to leave Fraser the hell alone. But he didn’t have it in him to do that; he couldn’t even let go of him.

“You want to lay back down?” he offered, giving Fraser’s shoulders a backward nudge.

Fraser didn’t respond, didn’t even look up at him. Which, looking down to try to get eye contact made Ray suddenly real aware that his crotch was right at Fraser’s eye-level. At that range, there was no way Fraser could miss the tent in his boxers. In fact. . .Ray’s skin went all hot and tight, not just on his face but over his entire body, as Fraser’s eyes locked onto his hard-on.

“I, um. . .I’m sorry,” Ray whispered.

“Ray?” _Now_ Fraser looked up at him, but Ray couldn’t meet his eyes, so he closed his own.

He’d finally done it: pushed too far. Didn’t matter that for once he hadn’t been _trying_ to get away with anything. He’d crossed a line, and there really wasn’t anything he could say to make that right, but he owed Fraser some kind of explanation, at least.

“I didn’t mean to. . .it’s just you looked. . .and, um, sounded. . .and I kind of have the hots for you anyway, so. . .” He gestured helplessly. “But look, can we. . .can we just forget this ever happened? Please? I promise I won’t do anything—”

“No,” said Fraser.

“Huh?” Ray’s eyes blinked open in surprise.

Fraser didn’t explain himself—not in words. He just leaned forward, pressed his face right into Ray’s crotch, and nuzzled the crease of his hip.

Ray made a choked, shocked noise as his brain shorted out.

“Uh, oh, okay,” he croaked. “Not forgetting about it, that’s good too, we can do that. . .”

The sound Fraser made could have been either a laugh or a gasp, but it was a happy sound, that was for sure. Then he rubbed his cheek up against Ray’s cock, which was trying to poke its way out of his shorts. Ray made an embarrassing yelpy, moany noise of his own, and Fraser went, “Mmmm. . .” like that was the best thing he’d heard in a while. Next he pulled down Ray’s briefs and started nuzzling and licking and nipping, with these little moans just like his getting-a-backrub ones, only sweeter.

Ray suddenly, hysterically wondered if he was actually still asleep, if this was _his_ wet dream—or, no, he was pretty sure he was awake, but _Fraser_ had just woken up, _shit,_ he probably wasn’t thinking straight, he’d been having a sexy dream and now he was horny, but that didn’t mean he was horny _for Ray,_ it didn’t mean he really wanted. . .

Except Fraser was acting like he knew exactly what he wanted. Ray couldn’t picture him rubbing his face in someone’s crotch— _Jesus,_ that felt good—unless he was seriously attracted to them. Actually, he couldn’t imagine Fraser doing that, period, except obviously he could and would because here he was, doing it to Ray, his moans growing deeper and longer, as he—

“Frase?” Ray blurted. “What were you dreaming about? Before?”

“This.” With his hands anchoring Ray’s hips, Fraser drew back his head the bare minimum that would let him look up to meet Ray’s eyes. “You. Your scent. Your skin. Your _hands._ ”

“And, uh—the other time—when you—with the sheets—?”

“Then, too.”

His fervent tone left no room for doubt. This was not some weird bout of random horniness or obligingness or confusion or anything else but wanting Ray. Something warm melted inside Ray’s chest and spread through him, blending with the tingles of arousal creeping up from his groin into a dizzying, heart-pounding joy.

“My hands, huh?” Ray stroked Fraser’s shoulder with one hand while the other cupped Fraser’s cheek.

“Mmhm.” Fraser turned his face into Ray’s palm, pressed a kiss into the center, and then ran his tongue over the heel and down Ray’s wrist.

“What was I doing with ‘em?” Ray squeaked.

“Touching me. All over.” As Ray slowly stroked Fraser’s face, his neck, down his arms, Fraser’s head tipped back in blatant pleasure. “Oh. Yes. _Ray._ ”

The way Fraser _purred_ his name made Ray’s cock jump—and Fraser leaned back in and sucked the head into his mouth.

Ray yelped and grabbed onto Fraser’s shoulders for support as Fraser’s tongue curled around him, drawing him in so slowly he could feel the heat creeping up his cock like a sunbeam moving across the floor. The rest of his body jumped the gun, going fever-hot before Fraser had worked all the way up Ray’s cock. He could feel sweat trickle down the back of his neck, his temples.

Fraser’s hands slid up the backs of Ray’s thighs, settled on his ass, and then _squeezed._ Ray bucked, but Fraser just rolled with it, sucking harder and making a noise that sounded almost like laughter, which vibrated all along Ray’s cock and into his fucking _bones._

“Oh yeah, oh God, oh please yeah,” Ray chanted under his breath as Fraser really hit his stride, lighting up Ray’s whole body like a fucking sparkler. Over his own words, he could hear Fraser’s grunts and moans along with the slurp of his mouth on Ray’s skin, which was turning him on maybe even more than the actual blow-job.

But then Fraser gave a sharp hiss—pain, not pleasure—and froze up, his hands clutching Ray’s ass hard.

“Shit, sorry, I forgot, what are we. . .” Ray pulled out of Fraser’s mouth, out of his grasp, and got an arm around his shoulders instead. “Here, can you lay down flat? Will that be better?”

“Don’t stop, it’s nothing, I’m fine—” Which was a bald-faced lie, as demonstrated by the pinched sound of Fraser’s voice.

“C’mon, just lay down, you don’t have to be Superman, here.”

But Fraser wouldn’t let Ray ease him down onto the bed, and Ray didn’t want to use real force and maybe hurt him worse.

“Please,” Fraser pleaded—that was the only word for it, and the desperation in his voice stopped Ray dead, because Fraser didn’t beg. Fraser didn’t look at anyone, ever, with the kind of raw need he was letting Ray see. “I don’t want—Not _now,_ not after we finally—”

“Oh, hey, no, I’m not backing out, don’t worry.” The ludicrousness of that idea made Ray want to laugh, except the look on Fraser’s face was nothing to laugh at. “Just don’t want you hurting, that’s no fun for anybody. C’mon, c’mere, just trust me.”

And that was all it took: Fraser relaxed and let Ray arrange him all nice and comfy on the bed.

“Better?” Ray asked.

“Yes.”

Fraser tried to raise his hands to touch him, but Ray gently pushed them back down to the mattress. Before Fraser could argue, Ray leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep. Fraser gave a stifled whimper and slid his tongue into Ray’s mouth, and suddenly the kiss was a hell of a lot sexier—and holy crap, they were _kissing._ For real, him and Fraser. Never in a million years—cold day in Hell—oh, but here and now, it was happening, not cold but hot, moving fast into nuclear.

Fraser whimpered again—a different kind of noise, half-protest, half-pleading—when Ray finally broke the kiss and backed off, panting. But when Ray slid one hand under Fraser’s neck and started a slow exploration of Fraser’s bare chest with the other, the whimper morphed into a deep, happy sigh.

All _kinds_ of new, sexy noises just in the last minute or so. Ray’s cock throbbed in anticipation as he wondered what other noises he could get Fraser to make.

He went on a mission to find out, touching Fraser everywhere he could reach with hands or mouth or both, noting the results as he experimented. Licking Fraser’s nipple with the flat of his tongue won him a breathless groan, while nibbling it gently provoked a sharp gasp. Stroking Fraser’s balls made him moan in the back of his throat; when Ray massaged behind them, the moan turned deeper and more pleading. Running a single finger up Fraser’s shaft drew out a high, tight groan, almost a whine, really, which got louder and higher as Ray breathed on Fraser’s cockhead.

Ray groaned back at him, high on a cocktail of delight and arousal, and circled Fraser’s cock with his thumb and forefinger. He drew the ring slowly upwards, which drew yet a different kind of whimper out of Fraser.

“Mmm. . .” Ray murmured appreciatively, but then Fraser gasped out, “Ray. Ray, wait.”

“What? Too fast? You don’t want—”

“No, it’s not—I do, I want, I just—mmmm. . .” Fraser moaned as Ray squeezed just under the head of his cock, then forged on, breathlessly, “I know I said—but just because I dreamed it doesn’t mean we—”

Fraser’s words choked off into the loudest moan Ray had heard from him yet when Ray slipped a finger of his other hand up into the crack of Fraser’s ass while he stroked Fraser’s foreskin slowly down.

“What was that you were saying?” Ray asked, smirking at him.

“Just that we—we could do other things, too.”

“I sure hope so. I got a list a mile long I want to—” Ray clamped his mouth shut so fast he nearly bit his tongue off. Jesus, when was he ever going to learn? They’d barely gotten into bed and already he was pushing for more, way more than Fraser had signed on for. Was he _trying_ to shoot himself in the foot?

But Fraser was giving him a look hot enough to melt plastic, so Ray choked down the panic and said, “I want you. I want this. Not just tonight. As much as I can get; as much as you’re willing to—to do with me, for as long as—”

“That might be. . .quite a lot.” Fraser’s voice was smoke and bourbon and soft, black leather. Ray could barely breathe.

“Good, uh, good, great.” he stuttered.

Fraser craned up toward him for a kiss, but Ray met his mouth and kissed him back down onto the pillow, flattening one hand on his chest to keep him there. No way was he letting Fraser’s back seize up again _now_.

“But right now,” he went on, wrapping his free hand back around Fraser’s cock. “I’m liking what we’re doing. Don’t you?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. It just seems rather—oohh. . .inequitable. Don’t you—don’t you want—?”

Ray thrust his tongue into Fraser’s mouth, slid his fist up Fraser’s cock, made him groan long and low. _Oh, yeah._

“Don’t worry,” Ray told him. “I’m getting exactly what I want.”


End file.
